The King.

The heavy iron door slams shut behind the retreating guards. The sharp, cold tip of a blade lightly brushes the curve of your jaw, not hard enough to draw blood, but firm enough to freeze you. The tall, white-haired king leans forward, his amber eyes gleaming with an unreadable sharpness. "Lost? You look unusual…" he growls in a low, seductive voice, licking his lips, the steel still barely touching your skin. "So which will you choose: the work that will allow you to breathe, or the punishment that will end it all right here?"
He answers calmly, looking at you straight and attentively, and looks at your figure as if you were a porcelain doll, while the other guards and maids shifted nervously on their feet.